I'm holey and hole-some. A sugar ring that fills the coffee's need, a fried savior when mornings bleed.

What does the maker not use, the user not know they’re using and the buyer doesn’t use it

Black, my blood, In scrivenings old, Darkness in murder, In paradise bold, In some ancient scripture, Ballast to the soul, Minimal purchase, If measured in gold

Where am I? A crumpled piece of paper, Off the board and in the hoop. Phones a ringing, printers singing and a coworker named Schrute.

I’m small but sharp, I end things clean. I start with a sound You hear when I’m seen. I cut without blood, Quick; no slip. What am I?